


What is a Personification

by Anonymous



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Gen, Temporary Character Death, WW2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:53:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24416956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Alfred learns more about what means means to be a personification. Set in WW2.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 20
Collections: Anon Works





	What is a Personification

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Probable historical inaccuracies.

Europe was a hot mess. Then again, when was it not? With so many personifications in such close proximity, it was no wonder tensions were high. It was a miracle England hadn’t swum across the channel to strangle France yet. But this was an entirely different issue, one that encompassed all the nations, pulling them into another bloody war. One that France and England took the same side on.

World War 2

America wanted no part of it. He still remembered the horrid stalemate of the last war, artillery fire shaking their trenches to the very core, laying awake, terrified for another attack, another charge, another massive loss of life. Trudging through the mud, miserable, indomitable spirit drained until you were a hollow husk of your former self. Terrible food, rationed to the last biscuit, disgusting. Sometimes not even that, sometimes you had to feed yourself on the leather in your boots and the rats that could be found scurrying about. Like a couple of hobos, squatted around a fire, watching the greasy grey hair catch and burn, mouth watering because it’s been so long since you’ve had anything substantial. Your comrades, the only comfort that could be found in this hellish place lining up, gripping their guns. Knowing they weren’t coming back. Knowing you would. Knowing you would deliver their letters, crying mothers and children, sobbing, pleading,  _ no, this can’t be real.  _ War was the reality they all faced. America averted his eyes.

America expected begging. He expected the Allies to come up to him at the next meeting, pleading, demanding, furious. When he had proclaimed to be the hero at the time of their greatest need, he would isolate his country. Running like a coward. He came to the meeting because he had to, with a heavy heart weighing down his shoes, speech already prepared. Before he could speak, England held up his hand and asked, point blank if he was going to join the war or not. The room waited with baited breath. America had never felt so small. 

“No.”

The devastation in their eyes, as if America had taken their dream and ripped it to pieces in front of them. A few of the younger countries leapt to their feet, righteously outraged, but their older neighbours pulled them down, not a peep out of their chapped mouths despite the exhausted hue of their eye-bags. He waited for their judgement to rain down on him like heavenly fire, burning the sinner to ashes.

“I see.”

England sat down. No accusations, no curses. No jabs at his character, no cruel mocking of his heroicness. Disappointment was thick, yet no one said a word. After the meeting, France even expressed his understanding. America was dumbfounded. 

* * *

Later he asked Canada about it. 

“Don’t worry, it's okay. I mean, it was surprising at first,” Canada admitted, slinging his rifle over his shoulder. “I thought you’d be coming with us. But England explained it to me. It’s all fine now.”

Explained what?

“Why you can’t come? Your people are against it. After the last World War, it’s no wonder why your citizens don’t want to be embroiled in another war across the sea. My people were protesting too.” Canada winced, hand rubbing at his chest. “Especially in Quebec. But your government’s not obligated to join.”

What are you talking about?

“Your people don’t want a war. Because of that you can’t come, or you’d be on the first ship out.” Canada stated it simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. He gazed trustingly at America’s face, and America looked away. Canada’s smile slipped.

“Right?”

…

When Canada came back for a brief visit with his government after his deployment overseas, he apologized. After some thought, anyone would do the same in America’s situation. A chance to avoid the horrors, helping by selling weapons dirt-cheap. Delivering across the ocean, where they were desperately needed. It was non-violent assistance and Canada would have done it if he wasn’t a part of the Commonwealth. America saw him off. Canada, brimming with grim determination, standing like a soldier when the boat came into view, made America think that his sincere brother wasn’t quite so sincere after all.

* * *

“I want to join the war.”

“No.”

That second no was just as jarring as the first. America clarified; not the country, just him. Just Alfred. Refused, yet again. Volunteers, yes. Supplies and weapons, yes. Alfred, no.

Alfred wanted to choke him. He couldn’t.

* * *

America held his bleeding arm to his side, staring in shock at the man bombing him, his people, his houses, his islands to the ground. Black hair flickered in firelight, sheen of sweat dripping past his bowl-cut, down into his soot-covered uniform. When America closed his eyes, he could almost see him dressed in his tracksuit, covered in blankets as they sat side by side, clinging to each other as the monsters leapt out at them from the screen. But the smell of smoke and the gunfire and cut-off was impossible to block out. America opened his eyes to see Japan standing over him in his imperial glory, gold standing out from his stark-clack uniform. His eyes were glazed as he stared down at America, seeing the betrayal, the shock, the fear he would never admit to but was so evident in his face. Three simple words,

“I’m sorry, Alfred.”

And then his vision went black.

* * *

The thing was, America had wanted to join since the beginning. He wanted to fight, to put Germany in his place, to show him who was on top, to liberate the oppressed, to be the hero. It was just a larger, louder, more sensible part of himself screamed self-preservation, shielding himself from more terror and bone-shattering pain. That part was gone now. Fueled by the rage that consumed them, Alfred and America as one declared war. As he sailed across the Pacific, seeing his brother’s bruised, battered body but not broken, never broken, purple eyes still filled with that same stubborn energy, America knew he-they would win the war. No matter the cost. 

* * *

The cost was too high.

“Launch it.”

“No.”

The President reminded him of the liquid anger that coursed through his veins, of Pearl Harbour and screaming and blood and death. He said it was only just, that America had to accept this. America did. Alfred did not. When he closed his eyes, he did not see the image that should be scorched into his brain. He thought of happier times, of sitting in front of a console, shooting at each other when they thought it didn’t matter, laughing together, about fast food and baths, about all sorts of silly things that Alfred couldn’t even recall, only fondness prevalent in those memories. He thought of eating blowfish, Japan’s funny little reactions to everything, his politeness, his kindness, his honesty. His soft-hearted tendencies that America had been privy to, his regrets of times long past, of sitting around an empty table and eating rice, all alone, all by himself. America said that he’d eat with Japan, but only if it was burgers. Japan shook his head sadly. A meaning that America hadn’t fully grasped.

“Do it.”

America pressed the button. So many people dead, just with the move of a finger. He could almost imagine it. Blood spewing from his mouth, soaking through his black uniform, so much it was impossible to tell where it was coming from. On his knees, begging, pleading for this pain to disappear, for it to  _ stop, stop, stop _

“Again.”

  
  


Three weeks later, America came to see Japan in his hospital. Since they had lost the Japanese officials couldn’t do anything about it, not when America pressed so hard. That was how one personification ended up sitting by another’s bedside, utterly convinced it was all their fault. Tears soaked into the bedsheets, apologies sobbing out of his mouth. Japan’s bandaged fingers moved toward his tablet, composing his response. America looked at it with a combination of fear and dread.

“It’s okay,” the mechanical voice told him. It had no comforting infliction, no soothing tone like he would have, but shining black eyes tried to convey the meaning behind it. 

“I hurt you.” It took a long time for Japan to finish his reply.

“I hurt you,” the mechanical voice parroted. “Do you hate me for that?”

“No! Of course not! You had no choice! You were only-” America cut himself off. Only doing as you were told. Japan smiled. It was strained, old, wisened by so many years, so much suffering. Strong fingers squeezed brittle, weak ones.

* * *

Italy, crying, clinging onto a stoic German. Beyond his stiff and fearless exterior, America was willing to bet he was terrified. “Do with me what you will,” he rumbled. “You have won.”

Before this, knowing of the atrocities the Germans had committed, America would condemn him. He would sentence him to the fiery pits of hell and leave him there to rot for all of eternity. But all the angry and justice had drained out of him, leaving him weary for more bloodshed, even for one more person. All the Allies waited, eyes trained on him, waiting to see what he’d do. America stepped forward and raised his hand. Germany flinched. When he opened his eyes, he saw that America was only extending his hand.

“Hell has already imprisoned too many souls. The one responsible is already burning in the deepest pits. Let us put this tragedy behind us, so that it may not occur again.”

Germany was still punished. The Axis all were. But it was lighter than it could have been. Prussia was dissolved, not by their choice but by their bosses. Somehow he stuck around, still kicking. Many more wars, by proxy or threatening MAD would come about in the following years, suffering inflicted at the hands of another. But after all was said and done, after they had licked their wounds and relations had healed, Alfred would pick himself up, shake himself off and go play some video games.

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry, I know that ending doesn't make a lot of sense. It started as an idea, spun out of control. I always see people blaming Japan or America for Pearl Harbor or Hiroshima and Nagasaki. I don't think either of them truly wanted to. They're personifications, they have to do as they're told. Russia cried before putting down his citizen rebellion. Even if they carry grudges from the past I don't think they want to hurt each other.
> 
> And yeah, America‘s OOC.


End file.
